


see you when you're ready

by verity



Series: forget our future plans [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Family, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Meeting the Parents, Memory Magic, Mpreg, Pack Family, Psychological Trauma, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the couch, Stiles arches his spine and rolls onto his side to press his face against the cushions. "I'm not part of your pack."</p><p>Derek freezes, pullover in hand. "You could be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eriizabeto](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eriizabeto), [whiskey_in_tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskey_in_tea/gifts), [blue_rocket_frost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_rocket_frost/gifts), [mijra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mijra/gifts).



> thanks to Ashe, Scout, mijra, betp, peardita, rubykatewriting, & pinetreekate for cheerleading and amazing beta wizardry. pinetreekate let me look at her bathtub for research: she is a hero for all time.
> 
> no major archive warnings apply, but this fic has additional and considerable warnings in the end notes.

Stiles's studio apartment used to be cluttered, but clean: everything was in its place, whether that was under the couch or wedged between the desk and a planter. Derek wrangles a week off from work on emergency family medical leave and spends the first day of it cleaning the apartment, opening the windows, taking out the trash, grooming the kneazle and clipping her claws. Stiles sleeps through it, snug beneath a ratty comforter that he won't let Derek take from him to wash. His face is slack and peaceful, and he drools a little on the pillow, sneezing when the kneazle settles down by his head and flicks her tail over his nose. She hisses when Derek tries to approach, so he waits for her to investigate the fresh food and water he's set out before he checks on Stiles.

"I Banished everything in the fridge, but Scott dropped off a casserole," Derek says. "Macaroni and tuna. It smells revolting."

Stiles rolls over onto his belly, off the pillow, resting his head on his folded arms. "I love macaroni and tuna."

Derek runs a finger down the length of Stiles's spine, and Stiles shivers, but not like he's cold. "Do you want to eat something?"

"I can't tell whether or not you're really terrible at dirty talk or you just—do that," Stiles says, looking up from beneath long dark lashes, stark against his wan skin. The tattoos that cover his arms and chest are finally quiet; Derek can't see if new ones on his legs are live. "I should, I guess—I don't remember the last time I ate."

—

Derek changes the sheets while Stiles sits on the couch with a plate of casserole. The effort of eating the small corner piece of cheesy, noxious sludge tires Stiles quickly; by the time he sets down his fork, he's visibly wilting. Derek would help Stiles to bed, but he's still filthy, from their coupling last night, from his long illness. As much as it pleases Derek's wolf that his come is all over Stiles, smeared across his chest, dripping out of his ass, Derek's not going to put him back to bed like that.

"You think you can stay awake long enough for me to give you a bath?" Derek says, taking Stiles's plate from him. "Just—you'll sleep better like that."

Stiles's eyelids flutter. "Mmm, sure."

By Muggle constraints, the bathroom _should_ barely a fit a toilet and shower, but the little cubby off the kitchen is big enough for a huge, cast-iron tub. Derek finds the plug, starts running the water, and dumps in a handful of salts from the jar labeled "ouch" in Stiles's familiar scribble. The floors have changed since Derek lived here, from blue squares to white hexagons on the floor and subway tile that runs halfway up the wall. There's still empty space on one side of the medicine cabinet.

When the bath is halfway full, Derek goes to get Stiles, who's fallen asleep. Derek has to help him up off the couch, brace his shoulders while he gets his footing. Stiles is nearly as tall as he is, broad-shouldered; he'd shrunk in Derek's memory into someone smaller and more manageable. "Don't let me drown," Stiles says as he lowers himself into the water.

Derek strips off his shirt, pants, briefs, kicks them toward the hall and the mound of laundry he'll deal with tomorrow. "That's how they used to test for wizard babies, you know."

Stiles's head lolls against the smooth enamel of the tub. "What, leave them alone in the bath? Muggles did that, too, for—the other way around."

"I won't leave you alone," Derek says, nudging Stiles forward so Derek can step in behind him. There's an awkward minute of shuffling before Stiles settles with his back flush against Derek's chest, hips snugged between Derek's thighs. The water comes up nearly to their shoulders when they settle into place, and the bath things in the caddy clipped to the side are just in reach.

First, though, Derek scoops a handful of water over Stiles's head, using his free hand to keep it from running into Stiles's eyes. Stiles leans into Derek's touch, lets Derek tug his head back against Derek's shoulder when he's gotten Stiles's hair good and wet. He means to keep washing it, to tug the bottle of shampoo from the caddy, but Stiles presses his cheek against Derek's collarbone and it's—Derek can't focus like this, overwhelmed with contentment, with the relief of having Stiles safe and beside him again. It fills him with a cool trickle of fear.

"Shhh." Stiles tilts his head, noses Derek's throat. "I can feel your heart."

"Didn't you tell me that Muggles don't think we feel there?" Derek took Muggle Studies in school, so he can make Rice Krispie treats and send Electronic Mail, but he's never had a good grasp on mundane physiology. Divination was his best subject: he spent four successive years charting Mercury in retrograde and finding a Grim at the bottom of every cup.

"Metaphor," Stiles says, "that's—"

"I work for a bookseller," Derek says. "I know."

—

Things are different this time around. Laura and Stiles seem to have come to some tacit custody agreement behind his back; Derek will spend a night or two at each apartment before one of them nudges him in the direction of the Floo. "Time to go home," Stiles says, kissing Derek on the corner of his mouth; "Get out of here," Laura says, "Cora and I need witch time."

"You never used to need witch time," Derek says, lacing up his boots.

Cora rolls her eyes and drops the chewed end of her quill from her mouth. "Don't worry, we won't do mani-pedis without you."

When Derek turns up at Stiles's apartment the next week with shimmering gold nails and baby-soft soles, Stiles takes him by the hand to inspect the damage, running the pad of his thumb over one glossy nail. "Like tiny snitches," Stiles says. "Lydia used to paint my nails, during—she said it helped her think."

"The color is _Gilt Trip_ ," Derek says.

Stiles nods. "Good one." He turns their hands so that Derek's is resting palm up in his, like they learned in third year, tracing head and heart and life lines on their treacherous arcs. Derek doesn't know whether Stiles continued in Divination, what electives he took, whether he's looking for something deeper or stopping at the skin.

—

Scott and Allison live in the city, too. Their apartment is large, airy, and surprisingly Muggle; dinner comes out of an electric pot—"Aunt Melissa gave it to us for Christmas, and this pot roast, man, it is going to blow your _mind_ "—and afterwards they play a card game called Munchkin. Allison meets Derek's eyes knowingly over Scott and Stiles's bent heads, gives him a soft, cryptic smile. Like Derek, she was raised in a sheltered pureblood home, but nothing is quite so pure as their parents promised them.

After Stiles wipes the floor with them, he asks Scott about the draft for the upcoming Quidditch season; Scott's just wrapped up an eight-year stint as seeker for the San Francisco Friars to cover the sport for _The Daily Prophet_ , so he and Allison can start a family. Flourish & Blotts stocks posters of him aloft on his broom, snitch fluttering between his fingers. It's strange to see Scott in the privacy of his home, face lighting up as he talks, hands shaping the arc of a daring pass in the air. When Allison gets up, Derek follows the dishes levitating in behind her into the kitchen.

"Had enough of Quidditch talk?" Allison says. "I'll get these washing if you'll make us some coffee. There's a press in the cabinet behind you, or you can use the Muggle brewer, if you want."

"Never got the hang of those," Derek says. He fills the kettle while the plates scrape themselves into the compost bin under the sink. "They're supposed to be easy, but—"

Allison snorts. "I burn every pot. Scott—he likes everything the way his aunt makes it, and she—he cooks, anyway, so I don't mind."

There's ground coffee in the freezer: after waffling between equally-dubious flavor options, Derek measures a few scoops of the gingerbread stuff into the French press. Allison has already filled the sink with soapy water and fished out a dishcloth, so there's nothing much for either of them to do except stay out of the way while they wait for the water to boil.

"Stiles—he doesn't do anything the Muggle way," Derek ventures. "But I know he and Scott grew up—"

Allison shrugs, looks over her shoulder toward where Stiles is sprawled on his back on the living room floor, shrieking with laughter while Scott tickles him. "Stiles is—Stiles," she says eventually. "You do know you're the only person he's ever really—dated—right?"

"No," Derek says.

She plucks a bowl out of the air before it can hurtle itself into the side of the fridge. "Well, now you do."

—

Traditionally, packs gather together to run twice each year, wolf moon and harvest moon: when Derek was younger, those were his favorite times of year, aunts and uncles and cousins coming from far-off places to cluster around the hearth before they pulled on their pelts and spilled out beneath the bright moon. Over breakfast in the morning, they shifted back slowly, the children last, piling together sleepy and furred at the center, safe and loved.

Derek's pack doesn't run on the harvest moon anymore.

In January, though, they go back to their territory for one long night, renewing their claim on the land, drawing strength from the earth beneath them and stag's blood fresh in their mouths. There's no house any longer, only a clearing in the trees where they come to rest at the end of the night, Derek and Laura curled around Cora, the youngest. They have no cubs to protect.

After the sun comes up, they head home, grieving and sated, the land appeased for another year. Laura showers and heads to work, but Cora hunkers down in her bed, careless of her filth on the clean sheets, and Derek stays with her until the sun goes down. Wolves aren't solitary animals. The way they've turned in on themselves is a betrayal of everything they learned at their alpha-mother's knee, but it's hard to imagine growing their pack in a world where the bite is no gift, where even their own uncle betrayed them at the end. Cora never brings girls home; Derek tries and fails and tries again, like he's trying now.

"I miss Mom," Cora says, sometime in the hours where they drift between wake and sleep. "I miss Uncle Peter. I miss—"

Derek strokes her hair, matted and still damp with melted snow. "I know."

—

When Derek steps through the fire that night, Stiles is at his desk, flicking through an oversized book without touching the pages, his quill scribbling notes at his elbow. The quill drops onto the parchment when Stiles turns around in his chair, one arm braced against the top rung. "I didn't expect you tonight."

Words are—Derek crosses the room, puts his hand on Stiles's neck where there's still unmarked skin. He wants this, _needs_ this, to yield to the selfish desire to feel Stiles from the outside in, to press into him and succumb to the constant tug in his gut, the one that whispered _mate, mate_ even as he lay with his sisters in their grief on their family's grave. "I—" he tries, but nothing comes out.

Stiles looks up at him for a long moment, gentle, appraising. "I'll take care of you," he says.

Derek expects Stiles to take him to bed, but instead Stiles gets a warm, wet cloth and wipes the blood and dirt from Derek's face, cupping his hand around Derek's chin so he can tilt Derek's face up, to the side, and down again as he gets behind Derek's ears. In the bath, he whines in relief at Stiles's touch, his fingers massaging Derek's scalp, stripping him bare and clean. Stiles towels Derek dry, then pulls him close and lets Derek scent him, neck and wrist and groin.

"What would you do if I were a wolf?" he says, later, riding Derek, agonizingly slow and torturous and perfect. "Would you chase me when you run? Would you—would you mount me, when you caught me?"

Derek groans; his eyes flash. He tries to hold the shift in. "If you—I'd—I'd do anything you wanted."

Stiles nips at Derek's lip. "I want you like this, I want _all_ of you, not just—"

"I'd breed you," Derek says—his claws lengthen, brow hardens, teeth growing sharp in his mouth— "I'd fill you up, like I—fill you up with mine—"

"Do it," Stiles says, low, just before he slams down his hips and Derek's knot locks into him. "I'm yours."

—

Stiles goes away for a few days, up to Hogwarts to help Lydia with something, leaves Derek to care for the kneazle and the plants, even though they're perfectly capable of looking after themselves. He spends the week before alternately excited and anxious, packing and repacking. "Maybe I should have told you to take care of Derek," Stiles says to the kneazle, scratching beneath her chin. "He needs three meals a day and lots of petting and the occasional—"

"I've got it," Derek says. There's a list on the fridge, two feet long and studded with exclamation marks. "If there's any problems, I'll send you an owl."

Stiles stands up, leans over to give Derek a quick kiss. "Okay," he says. "I trust you."

In Stiles's absence, the apartment feels vast and empty, even though it's just one room overfilled with books and plants and battered furniture held together largely by Stiles's force of will. Derek putters around straightening things when he's not at work, although he knows better than to rearrange any of Stiles's myriad piles of books and rolled parchments. That's how he stumbles on the box shoved in the back of the linen closet beneath a musty wool throw, labeled "before" in unfamiliar, precise cursive. Derek lingers for a while before he puts the throw back, leaving the box unopened.

He puts the spare towels he's unearthed into the washer, curls up on the couch with one of Laura's mystery novels, and reads, kneazle purring away at his feet.

—

Stiles spends the week after his return grouchily rearranging the furniture and fussing with the succulents on top of the bookcases. Getting him to the Sunday breakfast on Cora's birthday is harder than regrowing a molar, not that Derek would know anything about that. "Look," Derek says, trying to decide which of Stiles's sweaters he's going to Engorge, "you don't have to go. But you're part of my—family."

On the couch, Stiles arches his spine and rolls onto his side to press his face against the cushions. "I'm not part of your pack."

Derek freezes, pullover in hand. "You could be."

"No," Stiles says, too quickly.

He comes to breakfast, though, gives her an annotated copy of Culpeper's _Complete Magickal Herbal_ , shifts uncomfortably in his seat while she squeals and Laura gives him an approving smile. Derek makes chocolate-chip pancakes and draws a smiley-face on Cora's with frosting, which she promptly scrapes off because "frosting is gross, Derek, ugh," and after they make it through the first batch of pancakes, it's not awkward at all.

Laura pulls Stiles aside on the way out. "You're always welcome in our den, Stiles," she says, while Derek hovers behind them and Cora picks up their plates, humming like that'll stop her from eavesdropping on every word. "You know that, right? Any time."

"Um, okay," Stiles says. "I mean—thanks."

—

Derek loses a bet with Boyd and has to pick up his closing shift and take down the retail shrine to Valentine's Day— _Witch's Own Kama Sutra_ , red ink, pink quills, inane greeting cards inscribed with _Baby, You Smell Like_ Amortentia _to Me_ —which is, of course, when Stiles gets sick. Because he's Stiles, he doesn't do anything sensible, like Floo Scott or Allison or even Laura; he's in the bathroom when Derek gets home at 2AM, his head pillowed on the porcelain tile, eyes bright and damp.

Stiles's forehead is cool under Derek's palm, his heartbeat fast but regular. He smells like sweat and vomit, like oak and rain, like—"I think I'm dying," Stiles says, reaching up to twist his fingers in Derek's shirt.

The blanket Stiles has wrapped around him—the old comforter he refuses to throw out—covers him from neck to ankle. " _No_ , you're not," Derek says as he tugs the blanket loose around Stiles's shoulder, so he can see the markings on Stiles's body, whether they're familiar scarlet, deadly white, or something else, dangerous and new.

—

Stiles squints up at Lydia when she sets foot in the bathroom, then closes his eyes. "Derek, now I'm hallucinating."

"No, I'm _here_ , you idiot." Lydia pulls her wand out of her lace-trimmed purple night robes, casts a cushioning charm on the floor before she crouches down next Stiles. "Let me look at you."

"He won't let me call a mediwizard," Derek says. "I don't know whether—"

Lydia hums to herself while she runs her hands over Stiles's body. Her touch is efficient and impersonal, but it still gives Derek a sudden, cringing frisson of jealousy that erupts in a low growl. "Rein in your wolf," she says, helping Stiles roll onto his stomach. The tattoos on his back are just as dull and lifeless as the others, frozen in a tense sprawl over his shoulder blades. "A mediwizard couldn't help you with these, anyway. They're my work."

Derek slumps down against the wall by the door while Lydia casts a series of diagnostic spells that shoot up umber runes in the air over Stiles's body. Stiles is nearly as still as his tattoos, his skin pale beneath the sickly flush on his chest and cheeks, and now that they're close, Derek can feel it through their bond, the way Stiles's body aches from head to toe, stomach clenching on nothing.

By the time Lydia finishes her spells and lets Derek help Stiles back to bed, it's getting close to dawn. "You're lucky I have a free morning on Thursday," she says with a yawn. "I'm going to make you grade my seventh years' essays again if I nod off in class."

Stiles bares freshly-brushed teeth as he tugs the quilt up to his ears. "Empty threat. You _love_ taking off points for minor spelling errors."

"True." Lydia looks over at Derek, hovering between them. "Do you feel it yet? What's happened?"

"Get to the point," Derek snaps; it's been a long day, and a longer night.

Lydia sighs. "You knocked him up. If you'd like, I can draw you a diagram—full moon, mating sex, excess quantities of ambient magic, didn't bother with a contraceptive sp—"

"What," Derek says. He sits down on the bed. Hard.

Stiles doesn't say anything at all.

—

After that, Derek can't sleep. His wolf and his human want to circle in on Stiles, territorial and protective, even though Stiles is more capable than anyone else Derek knows when it comes to protecting himself and their—Derek can't, it's too much. He presses his face against Stiles's flat belly, even though there's nothing there that he can sense yet.

Stiles's hand comes up to cradle Derek's skull, fingers weaving through his hair. "You like it," he says. "Are you—you're sure?"

"Are you?" Derek can't see Stiles's face, but that doesn't matter, with his ear pressed so close to Stiles's heart.

"I don't know," Stiles says truthfully.

It's—it's stupid, that Derek wants this so much. Derek doesn't want to want _anything_ , because his desires always betray him, make him gullible and pliable when he should be most guarded, burn the people he loves to ash with no hope of phoenix rebirth or redemption. Loving Stiles, giving in to the bond between them has already made Derek weak and vulnerable enough. He's the last person anyone should trust with a child.

And yet.

He _wants_.

Stiles tugs Derek up the bed, kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks. "Sshh," he says. His lips are wet on Derek's, then, which is when Derek realizes he's crying, angry and helpless, already mourning something he doesn't have any right to. "Sleep now. In the morning, we'll—"

"It's already morning," Derek says.

Stiles kisses him again, hot and deep, scoring Derek's hip with his blunt nails, and Derek lets him, bares his throat to be bitten and marked: surrenders.

—

When Derek wakes up mid-afternoon, Stiles is sitting on the floor with the box from the linen closet, contents scattered around him: Muggle ID, Muggle photos, notebooks with mottled black-and-white covers and tape on the spine like Erica at work likes. There's a sweater, too, knit thick for cold nights, pilled with wear around the elbows. Stiles is plucking at the seams.

"I have to find my dad," Stiles says, weaving the loose end through his fingers, tugging. "I think he's still in Florida, but I need to do a location spell."

In the entire time Derek has known him, he's never heard Stiles mention his family. Derek assumed they were dead; the Hales are far from the only orphans, now. "Your dad?"

Stiles nods. "He won't remember me, but I can fix that. It shouldn't—I won't be gone long."

"I don't think this is something you should do alone," Derek says, climbing out of the bed, not making any sudden movements. "Maybe—should I Floo Scott?"

"Hmm," Stiles says, which isn't an answer.

Half an hour later, Scott and Allison come over, Allison fresh from work and still in her Auror robes; Scott corners Derek while Allison drops to Stiles's side on the floor. "Thanks," Scott says quietly. "Stiles thinks he can do this stuff on his own, but that's bullshit. He needs us."

"I know," Derek says. "I'm glad he has you."

Scott punches his shoulder. Then he goes over to join Stiles and Allison in a huddle, comfortable and familiar, _pack_. "Come on," Scott says after a moment, shuffling toward Allison to create a space. "Group hug, we need you, too."

Reluctantly, Derek eases in, lets Stiles and Scott pull him in tightly, Allison's hair tickling his nose. He can feel the way Stiles eases, slowly but surely, until he starts sniffling, has to muffle his sobs into Derek's shoulder. "I had to do it," Stiles says while Allison and Derek rub his back. "There—there wasn't another way, I had to keep him safe, he can't protect himself. He didn't ask for this. And then I—I couldn't, after—"

"Your dad loves you," Scott says gently. "He'll—"

Allison's fingers brush against Derek's. "He'll forgive you."

"Yeah, sure." Stiles laughs, horrible and wrenching. " _I_ can't forgive me. Who—what kind of person—"

"You did what you had to," Derek says, even though he doesn't know—he knows _Stiles_ now, that's enough for him. "It was war."

—

They sort out transportation first. "We'll have to fly," Allison says, scrutinizing the map spread out over the big table, Stiles's father marked with a black X. "Broom or plane?"

Stiles has curled up in the armchair with velvet upholstery that prickles whenever Derek so much as glances at it. "I don't have a broom anymore, but—"

"I still have your broom," Scott says. "I didn't get rid of it."

They exchange a long look, which Allison pointedly ignores. Derek pulls the weather stone off the shelf and pulls up the forecast for the next few days, which undulates gloomily over their path down the east coast. "Why can't we Portkey?" he says. "That's probably the easiest—"

Allison clears her throat. "I can't. It's—they don't recommend, you know, this early—" She flushes prettily, and Scott loops an arm around her waist, grinning.

"You—" Stiles balls his fists, nails digging crescent moons into his palms; exhales. "You're—?"

Scott nuzzles her hairline, one hand inching up to cover her belly. "Finally!" he says, proud, possessive.

"Congratulations," Derek manages, staring down at the banner over the roiling clouds that announces a 75%, 90%, 80% chance of rain.

"Maybe we should drive," Stiles says. "Muggle doctors don't recommend planes, either."

—

The Ministry Floo network gets them as far as Tampa the next day, and they fly from there, wrapped in cloaks spelled to keep out the rain and cold. "I thought Florida was supposed to be sunny," Derek says to Scott when they stop for a bathroom break at a McDonald's. "We carry ten different guidebooks at work."

Scott pulls down the hood of his cloak. "I think Stiles's dad grew up around here." He's leaning against the dumpster by their brooms; if someone comes around the corner, the Disillusionment will show them scuffed skateboards and rain slickers instead. "He—it wasn't for the sun."

Stiles is inside with Allison, getting them all McRibs. Derek is not a fan of McRibs, but Stiles can have two, that's fine, he needs to— Derek shuffles his feet on the wet concrete, watches the rivulets of water streaming off his cloak trail over his boots.

"Stiles smells weird," Scott says, toeing a stray sandwich wrapper. "Have you noticed that?"

"If I had," Derek says, "I don't think Stiles would want me to talk about it."

Scott nods, expression abruptly grave. "Thanks," he says.

—

The house is an old bungalow with a wide porch, built a few feet up off the ground, green shuttered and white shingled. Trumpet vines twine up around the pillars on one side, while bougainvillea drips from the fence that encircles the back of the lot. There's wood-paneled station wagon with weathered red paint beneath the carport.

Stiles has a key.

"Your dad's on shift?" Scott says, hovering at Stiles's elbow while he jiggles the key in the lock. "I mean, is he still—"

"They took him on as a deputy when he came here, my grandma—" Stiles clears his throat. "He might be sheriff again, by now. I don't know."

Inside, the house is dark and humid, furniture reduced to hulking shapes before Allison flicks on the light to reveal a room crowded with musty furniture covered in doilies and Muggle baubles. Derek can't help but stare at all the photos. There are no pictures in Stiles's apartment aside from the ones he pulled out this morning, not even of Scott or Allison or Lydia, but these hang on every wall of the room and litter the side tables, the mantle, the top of the electric organ with its yellowed plastic keys, faded and unnaturally still. Stiles isn't in any of them, of course.

Allison lifts up one with a white-haired lady in a pink suit. "Where's your grandma?"

The grandfather clock next to Derek chimes the hour; a little mechanical bird pops out of a window at the top, cheeps, and slides back in.

"Um," Scott says, fingering the stack of sympathy cards on the table by the door.

—

Stiles has his head in Scott's lap on the least uncomfortable couch. "She wasn't supposed to—she promised, when I died—my dad's not _stupid_. He's—"

Derek sits down some glasses of water in front of them. "You didn't die, though," he says.

"I wish I had," Stiles says, pressing his face against Scott's leg; Scott cards his fingers through Stiles's hair.

On autopilot, Derek goes out to the porch where Allison's standing sentinel, watching the road through the rain sheeting off the roof. Below, the flower beds are churning into a dark slush, and the whole place smells fertile, loamy and soft: ripe. "We can hear him inside," Derek says. "If you—"

Allison shrugs. "I'd rather if Stiles's dad didn't try to arrest us."

"Right." Derek hangs at the door, taps his fingers against the wood frame, unsure. Allison's arms are crossed over her chest, the drape of her sleeves framing her still-flat belly. She wears the Argent crest at her neck, but Derek's wolf says _protector-sister-mother-warrior_ , settles in her company the way he does around Laura. He stays: wolves don't keep vigil alone.

Just as the cruiser pulls into the driveway, Scott and Stiles come out onto the porch. Stiles's eyes are red and he smells like salt, but his shoulders are straight, his face composed. When Derek takes his hand, he doesn't pull away.

Stiles's dad approaches the house cautiously, stepping from one paving stone to next to keep out of the mud. He has a six-pointed star pinned to his shirt, a gun on his hip, one hand shielding his face from the rain until he steps beneath the shelter of the porch roof. For a long moment, he stares at them curiously. "You look familiar," he says to Scott. "Do I—"

Stiles swallows hard, twists his fingers in Derek's, says two words.

There's no lightning, no thunder, just the same steady torrent of rain hurtling down around them. Stiles's dad comes a little closer, but there's no light on in his eyes, either. "You—" He steps forward, lifts his hand to touch Stiles's face. "I know you."

"I look like Mom," Stiles says, voice steady. "That's what people always tell me."

"Your mom, that's right," his dad says. "Your—oh."

Stiles steps back, bumps into Scott, who puts his hands on Stiles's shoulders. "Mom's dead," Stiles says. "Grandma's—"

"You're not," his dad says: slow, wondrous. "Stiles. Son."

—

Derek hangs back while John hugs Stiles, a wave of affection and need and grief pulsing through their bond: after that, Derek wants the reassurance of touch, too. Instead, he helps Scott prepare dinner, turning freezer-burnt chicken breasts into something palatable in the oven and cooking pasta on the disconcertingly flat stovetop. Allison steps out for a while to answer an emergency work call on her pocket mirror. Everything seems so normal and cozy with the lights on, as they set and gather around the table. John knows Scott and Allison, of course, met them when Stiles was twelve and watched them grow up together, out of gangling limbs and baby fat into sharp-eyed determination as they readied themselves for war.

"You seem like a nice young man," John says, later. They're in the kitchen, drinking coffee; the Golden Trio are passed out on the queen bed in the guest room. "Stiles says you've been good to him."

"Stiles is—" Derek rubs his thumb against the handle of his mug. "He's very—"

On an average day, Stiles is the most powerful wizard in the world. In an average week, Stiles leaves his apartment once or twice to pick up dinner from the Thai place around the corner that doesn't do delivery. Stiles got _Lydia_ to agree to check on the kneazle while they're gone; he doesn't have a valid driver's license and hadn't ridden a broom in eight years until this morning. Somewhere inside him, at least for now, is a spark of life they've made together. Stiles is—Stiles.

John smiles, although it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "He's my son. I understand."

"I—I can help with the dishes," Derek says. "Can I help?"

"Go to bed," John says, pushing back his chair, getting to his feet. He looks old, but Muggles age differently, and it's true that none of Derek's family lived to John's age, lived to see Derek and his sisters grown and alive and happy. "That kid of my mine can pull his weight in the morning."

When Derek opens the guest room door, Allison and Scott are still sacked out on the bed, but Stiles is sitting in the overstuffed loveseat under one of the windows, a pillow held tight to his chest. He nods at Derek, jerky and stiff, and that—Derek has had enough of this, of this day, this ridiculous, endless day. Derek shuts the door behind him, skirts the bed, gets on his knees when he's close enough to put his head in Stiles's lap and let out his wolf.

"Shhh." Stiles cups Derek's furred cheek with one hand. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm here."

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" Derek says through his fangs. "That you wish you were—?"

Stiles is quiet for a while. "Sometimes. Don't you?"

" _No_ ," Derek says.

Behind Derek's ear, Stiles's fingers go still. "I'm kind of fucked up," he says eventually. "I thought you knew that."

Derek pulls in his claws, draws back his fangs, climbs up beside Stiles on the loveseat, which is made of pleather that squeaks beneath Derek's jeans. "I only know what you tell me."

"Okay," Stiles says, although it isn't. He drops his head down to rest on Derek's chest, and they sleep like that, tangled limbs and street clothes, all the way until morning.

—

John spends most of the day with Stiles in the sunroom at the back of the house, but he doesn't return to the city with them. "You'll come again soon," he says to Stiles, when they're all gathered together inside again. "We'll—owl, I'll get an owl if I have to. Do you have email?"

"No," Stiles says, fidgeting next to Derek on the couch. "Wait—you have email?"

" _I_ have email," Derek says.

Scott leans over the side of the other couch to elbow him. "I'll help Stiles set up an account, okay?"

"You and Allison should come back, too," John says, sitting forward in his chair. "I can't believe it's been—you were just kids."

Allison rests her head against Scott's shoulder. "Yeah," she says. "I know."

"I—I can't come back too soon," Stiles says. "But I will. And you'll come see me. And Grandma—"

John puts his hand on Stiles's knee. "We'll talk."

The storm has petered out for the moment, and the darkening sky overhead is clear when they lift off, pushing off the ground and into the air. As many times as Derek's been on a broom, he never quite gets used to it, the abrupt release of levitation as his body tugs free of the ground. The air is cool and crisp and dry—perfect flying weather—and when they hit cruising altitude, Derek can see all the way to the coast.

They don't make any stops on the way back.

—

Barely functional on a vial of 5 Hour Fireball and a bowl of Kappa Krunchies, Derek starts work the next day already sleepy and cranky. He spent the night on the couch while the kneazle took up his half off the bed, her head on Stiles's belly, hissing every time Derek came near, and the philodendron next to him grumbled in his ear all night: _daily water daily water daily water feeeeeeeed._

Erica stops Derek in the office when he clocks in, gives him a long look up-and-down before she snorts dismissively. "You look like something the dog dragged in." Derek bares his teeth; Erica just rolls her eyes and lets them bleed red for a moment. "Have some coffee before you go out on the floor. If you can't deal with customers, I'll throw Boyd on reg and you can inventory all the Easter shit we just got in."

"You were going to give Boyd the bunnies? I'm hurt," Derek says, sidling up to the coffee pot, which clucks its tongue and pours him a mug of something that looks Turkish and deadly. The mug has _Bring Your Fangs To Work Day 2012_ in glow-in-the-dark letters on the side. Erica was a diversity hire a decade ago and she's been the manager of this store for most of that; almost everyone who works here is a wolf.

"Boyd's my favorite," Erica says. "Everybody knows that."

Derek spends his shift watching Boyd set up the Easter display, charming the patchwork bunnies to romp peacefully without eating the fake grass or humping each other. It's a Tuesday morning, slow enough that he can rotate the bestseller shelves and restock the impulse bins on the counter with quills and chocolate frogs and bookmarks with ten memory slots and a search function. The bookmarks tend to crap out if you try them with textbooks or any of the magical Dickens, but they're only a galleon.

Number five on the bestseller list is the new edition of Gilderoy Lockhart's _Practically Perfect Pregnancy_ , which he manages to skim under the counter for half an hour before Erica busts him, sniffing his neck as she tries to yank the book out of his grasp. "Is Laura knocked up? You smell like fifty shades of preggo."

"No." Derek tries to tug it back and gouges one of Lockhart's eyes with a claw. "A—friend. I was just—"

Erica inhales sharply: her jaw drops. "You put a werewolf bun in his _oven_."

"Shut up," Derek says, eyeing the lone customer browsing out front. Boyd is humming tunelessly to himself and shelving those weird Muggle marshmallow things next to the chocolate eggs that hatch wind-up chickens if you eat around the banana-flavored yolk. "He's—I don't even know if he's going to—keep it. I just—"

"—and now you've discovered a whole new world of emotional issues, I'm impressed," Erica says. She finally lets go of the book and Derek almost tips over in his chair. "Tear the cover off that and mark it out as damaged. Then get me some more coffee."

—

"You are the most terrible at hiding things," Stiles says, later, once Derek has generously made the trip down to the Thai place to pick up their dinner. "Are you aware of that?"

Derek hands Stiles his drunken noodles with an extra side of rooster sauce and tears. "The last time I did that on purpose, someone burned most of my family alive."

"Point," Stiles says.

They eat in companionable silence, Stiles cross-legged on the couch and Derek at his feet, one ankle pinned to the floor by the kneazle, who has moved from aggressive disdain to kneading Derek's tender werewolf flesh with her claws. The prickling pain is weirdly soothing, and Derek abandons his grilled prawns half-finished to loll his head against Stiles's knee. He drifts like that for a while, just listening. There's the quick flutter of the kneazle's heart, and Stiles's above hers, slower, steady; the soft scrape of Stiles's wooden chopsticks against the bottom of the plastic container, his happy sighs around his noodles. If Derek kisses him, the heat there will sear Derek's mouth, numb his lips for a long moment before his superpowered healing kicks in to right the balance.

"You can look at my stuff," Derek says when Stiles puts aside his chopsticks to tangle his fingers in Derek's hair. "I don't care. It's all—yours. I'm all—"

"Don't say that," Stiles says.

Derek turns to look up at him. "I love you."

Stiles makes a terrible strangled noise and tilts his head back to stare up at the ceiling. "Don't. Just—I can't do this right now."

"Okay," Derek says. He gets his wand out, sends his leftovers into the fridge, rinses Stiles's container out before letting it drift into the recycling. The chopsticks go in the trash.

—

Easter passes, and then it's May, the days turning warm and sunny. It's getting—late, for doing anything. None of the books really talk about that part. They assume you're headed for a happy ending, sweet baby sleeping in the cradle by your bed (or in with you, depending on the book) while you move on to one of the endless string of contradictory manuals on parenting that will prepare you for the way your world's going to be turned upside down. Derek doesn't buy any of those. He showers before he visits his sisters, and if Laura knows, she doesn't say anything. Talking about feelings isn't really a Hale specialty; they can usually smell them.

Stiles's dad comes to visit once. Derek lets him into the building and flees into the park for the afternoon, walks around the man-made lake and past the follies, stops to listen to a harpist in one of the courtyards. The plants are as vibrant now as the ones in Stiles's apartment are year-round, roses blooming rich and fragrant. When Derek comes back, Stiles is alone again, lying on the floor while the dishes lazily clean themselves and drop into the rack to dry. The apartment smells like grilled cheese.

"So." Derek hesitates on the threshold.

"My dad brought us oranges," Stiles says. "They're in the fridge."

After he kicks off his shoes by the door, Derek joins Stiles on the floor. Stiles has his hands folded over his belly, his eyes closed. He looks almost like he's asleep, but his heartbeat is too quick, and his shoulders tense when Derek lies down next to him. Derek slides his hand over, rubs his knuckles against Stiles's thigh, waits for Stiles's breathing to slow.

"What would we even do with a kid?" Stiles says after a while. "I—I'm terrible at—I fuck everything up. I was supposed to die, I wasn't supposed to have all of this in me. It's a fucking curse. And you—it's not like you signed up for this. You could go anytime. You did."

"I won't," Derek says. "I came back for you."

"You're a good person," Stiles says, flip, dismissive. "Your whole life has been shitty people taking advantage of that."

Derek shifts closer, pushes himself up on one elbow so he can look down at Stiles. "I'm a good person and you're—not? How does that work?"

"Do you know what I can do?" Stiles snaps. "Do you even know what I'm capable of?"

"You don't want to hurt anyone," Derek says.

Stiles opens his eyes, meets Derek's. "I hurt you."

"Yes," Derek says. "You might hurt our kid. I might. We're messes."

Stiles drops his hand to cover Derek's, the pads of his fingers brushing against Derek's palm.

—

Laura drops by Flourish & Blotts towards the end of Derek's opening shift, browses the romance section while she waits for him to finish up. Then she drags him down Diagon Alley, past the barrier, and through the thronging Muggle masses to a frozen yogurt place. "I'm buying a house," she says while they're waiting in line. "You should get the mango, it's really good."

"A house," Derek says carefully.

They eat while they walk up 4th Avenue toward the square, Laura gnawing on her chilled gummi bears with sharp teeth. "It's a brownstone, they just accepted my offer," she says between bites. "It'll wipe out most of the insurance money if I pay cash in full, so I'm putting half down and financing the rest. We can afford the mortgage, easy, and hopefully the market will go up by the time we need something bigger."

Derek licks some stray chocolate sauce off the back of his finger. "Why are you buying a house?"

"You can't raise a kid in that shoebox, dumbass." Laura rolls her eyes. "There's five bedrooms, three stories, and a basement. That should do us for a while."

"I'm—am I?" Derek says.

Laura grabs Derek's arm before he walks into traffic. "If you don't kill yourself first, yes."

"Don't joke about that," Derek says.

"Stiles came to talk to me this morning." Laura's voice softens; she doesn't let go of Derek. "About joining our pack. Because the kid will be a werewolf, so we'll—we'll have a cub in our pack, Derek, we'll—"

They move out of the way when the light turns green, because Laura starts crying and Derek has to throw their yogurt cups in the trash.

—

Stiles lets Derek drag him out into the park for a walk that afternoon. It's a gorgeous day, sunny with a gentle breeze; they're almost mowed down by a group of teenaged girls on skateboards by the entry, and there are people with strollers everywhere. Expensive strollers. Derek's learned a lot about strollers today.

"So." Stiles laces his arm through Derek's, like they're old wizards taking a stroll. "You ran into Laura?"

"I wasn't the one doing the running." Derek glances over at Stiles, who's getting soft, rounder at the edges. Soon he'll— "Are you sure?"

"We'd be terrible parents by ourselves," Stiles says. "But that's not how you guys do it, right? I—I asked Laura. She said it's not normal, the way you're split up now, even though you go back to your, um, den a lot—"

Derek nods. "Not when a pack is this small."

"I don't want the bite." Stiles looks down at the bricks beneath their feet. "When Scott—I never did, okay? But I like your family. Your pack. And—Laura said she'll be my alpha, too."

"Is that what you want?" Derek says.

Stiles shrugs. "Trying to do everything by myself doesn't seem to be working out for me."

The string of joggers behind them is closing in, and Derek lets Stiles steer him to the side of the path, halting beneath a tall elm. Derek has a hard time imagining being on his own, alpha and omega both; he wasn't made for that. Maybe no one is. "That's true," he says. "You—"

"I'm working on it, okay," Stiles says, pulling Derek closer. "I'm going to try to something new."

Stiles kisses Derek, then, under the broad branches of the elm: it's as electric and perfect as the first time, and there's nothing magic about it at all.


	2. epilogue

"So, we just… hang out in here?" John says, taking a tent peg from Derek.

Allison nods, checking the scroll in front of her one last time to confirm they have every kind of Muggle camping equipment Stiles and Scott could think of. "I brought board games and butterbeer and—"

"MAMA," Lily shrieks, flinging her arms around Allison's legs. She's already wolfed out, gone ridgy along the brow and furry at the ears, her shoes lost somewhere along the way. "MAMA, LOOK TREES!"

"This is what you get when you raise children in the city," Scott's aunt Melissa says, following her grandniece into the clearing. She scoops Lily up and kisses her cheek, lets Lily scent mark her. "So many trees, baby. You want to go run with your dad for a while?"

"GONNA RUN!" Lily agrees, squirming until Melissa lets her down. She rubs her cheek against her mom, John, and Derek and then she's off into the trees, where Scott and Laura are tramping down a safe circuit for the cubs to wear themselves out before moonrise.

Stiles, Cora, and Talia are the last to straggle in, bringing still-warm bagels and cream cheese and other snacks for the morning, as well as the last of the sleeping bags. Talia is still shy around anyone outside of the pack, but she smiles at Melissa before Stiles puts her into Derek's arms. She tucks her cold nose against his neck, digging her claws into the tight weave of his jacket. "Don't let her innocent act fool you, she just had a giant temper tantrum inside the grocery store," Stiles says. "Because someone wouldn't buy her those chocolate milk boxes that—"

"Choc milk," Talia says, lifting her head to blink at Derek with wide, beseeching golden eyes, a look that worked really well on all of them until she started walking and became a menace to society.

"Oops, I'm a werewolf," Cora sing-songs through her fangs as she pulls her sweater over her head. "I can't understand this conversation."

"Take our feral child with you and begone," Stiles says, leaning in to give Derek a kiss. "Go howl at the wolf moon like the beasts you are."

Derek bends down to brush his cheek against Talia's, to scent his ridiculous, mischievous, miraculous kid, who drank her weight in chocolate milk this morning before he left the house to come clear the camp site with Scott and John. She smells like it, too, milk and baby shampoo and pb&j on wheat: all the little kid smells that are part of the scent of their pack now. "Come on," he says to his daughter. "Let's go run with your alpha. We've all been waiting for you."

**Author's Note:**

> additional warnings: unplanned/sort of unwanted magical mpreg, character considering abortion, unrelated suicidal ideation, previous nonconsensual memory wiping (Stiles’s dad) 
> 
>  
> 
> Diagon Alley in this world is off 4th Avenue, on New York City's old Book Row.
> 
> Derek's email address is dhale1@fbinternational.wz. He's checked it once. The card catalogue at Flourish & Blotts supports Pine.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] see you when you're ready by verity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/988062) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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